The Diary of Karen Riddle
by angua27
Summary: Karen Riddle is a muggle who is investigating her ancestors and their mysterious deaths when she... well, that would be telling. Karen is NOT Voldemort's daughter or sister.


The Diary of Karen Riddle  
  
By: Angua27  
  
This is story I wrote forever ago. I think it was right after the fourth came out and I never finished it. Well, I'm going to try to. Karen is not Voldemort's daughter. She's actually almost not related she's so far apart and she's a muggle. Sorry, I had to mention that first off. Hey! While I'm on an intro to a story I have to tell you to join my community. The link is under my ff.net author profile. Oh, and I don't own anything in this story except Karen and her dad and a few other things having to do with her. Review! Review! Review!  
  
8:19 PM, June 1st, 1994: Shadow Searchers' Headquarters; Boston, Mass.  
  
I just found a new development in our research that concerns me directly and (lucky me) as foreign correspondent for Shadow Searchers, I get to investigate. First let me get down the background research. Jeff will get mad if I get offed without a precise record of what I'm investigating. He can be so morbid. Anyway, here goes.  
  
About fifteen to eighteen years ago (That's a really bad range. It was longer than that, but I think that was about the height of it.) there were hundreds of deaths worldwide, but concentrated in Great Britain. What's weird is that there was no apparent cause of death. They were all just… well, dead. Fourteen years ago the deaths stopped abruptly. That was probably in August 1980 sometime. We've been looking at these deaths since January, but recently I discovered that before this big mass of killing there were three similar deaths – and all three were in my family.  
  
Tom Riddle was my grandfather's brother. He was always known in the family as a sort of "black sheep." It's not that he was wild. To everyone except his family he was a very successful entrepreneur, but my dad always told me stories about his nutty, womanizing uncle. He was never around a lot because after he made his money he took off. I never met him because of his "murder." Frank Bryce, my great-uncle's gardener was accused of the murder, but was never convicted. Police reports say that Bryce claimed to see a young man around the house before the mysterious deaths of Tom Riddle, his wife and son. I wanted to get an interview with Bryce because I think he could unlock the mystery of all those years of murders, but, unfortunately, he's not open for questioning. Frank Bryce died the same way as the others last August.  
  
So that's why I'll be heading to Little Hangleton in England later this week to ask around. Yup, leave it to me to find out what the supernatural bad guys are up to. After all, what are preternatural investigators for?  
  
  
  
******  
  
  
  
3:01 PM, June 5th, 1994: Train to Little Hangleton, somewhere in England  
  
God, I hat transcontinental plane trips. I swear I'll have jet lag until July. And then I'll have to get home.  
  
I arrived at the airport about an hour ago. It takes two and a half hours to get from the airport to Little Hangleton by train which is what I'm on now.  
  
It's weird thinking that my dad grew up here. Of course, he lived in Bootle, close to Liverpool, but it's the same country. Right. That's like saying Wisconsin and California are the same.  
  
I'm going to the pub first thing. People always talk there. Besides, I have to fint a motel and the best way to find out where to go is from the locals.  
  
I'll write later today.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
10:28 PM, June 5th (still!), 1994: The Hanged Man, Little Hangleton, England  
  
Today has been more eventful than I ever could have hoped. I don't know exactly where to begin, but I guess I'll start when I entered The Hanged Man, Little Hangleton's only pub and probably the only place to socialize in general.  
  
I thought I could play it cool, but the moment I entered I knew it would be impossible. Every head in the bar turned toward me. I suppose they're not used to having visitors. I just smiled as politely as possible and sat down. I ordered a Coke because it really isn't the best idea to get drunk while doing detective work, then again after that train ride I could really have used a shot of something stronger.  
  
"Visiting?" asked the bartender, eying my Coke.  
  
I handed him his money and shook my head. "Business."  
  
"Business? What sort of business would bring you to our little town?" a woman called from the back of the bar. It took me a minute to figure out what she said amidst the accent and the booze.  
  
"Investigative work," I replied shortly. I find brief answers make people curious and when they're the ones who seem curious, not me, they don't mind sharing information.  
  
"We don't have nothin' to investigate!" someone laughed.  
  
"Come now, all little towns have their stories. Why else would a pub be called "The Hanged Man"?" I prodded. The bartender immediately flew into some highly boring story about some war hero that hung someone for treason on "this 'ere spot." I endured it while glancing around the room to examine its members. All of them were focused on me with the childish awe of kindergarteners to their teacher. I must have seemed exotic to a roomful of people who'd probably never even seen London.  
  
I hardly noticed when the bartender stopped, but I nodded appreciatively anyway.  
  
"And may I ask yer name?" he asked. I wondered if he was flirting, but the kindness in his eyes dispelled my suspicions.  
  
"My name's Karen Riddle," I answered. As if a candle was blown out, the entire room became silent.  
  
"Riddle, did'ya say?" the bartender asked.  
  
"Yes," I said as though I didn't understand the significance of this. "Some of my family used to live around here a long time ago. Did you know them?"  
  
"Know 'em? Nah. None o' us knew 'em," a man a few stools down from me said. "But we all know about 'em. I suppose you'll know about them dyin' and all. None o' the doctors could figure it out and now ol' Frank's gone dead the same way. People were movin' into Little Hangleton. They was thinkin' it was a family town, but now… Now, they're all movin' out again."  
  
"It's a curse is what it is," a very knowledgeable woman told me in a superior voice. "All those people livin' over at that house, all dead. You don't tell me that that's just a coincidence." She turned to address the rest of the pub and I had the feeling they'd had this conversation before. "There's some powerful evil there and it'd be best if we just burned the place down." A few patrons nodded darkly.  
  
"I'd like to take a look at the house. Maybe tomorrow," I said.  
  
"You don't want to be doing that," the superior woman said. "You don't need to be picking up those ill spirits."  
  
"I'll take you," someone said from the corner.  
  
"Marie, you keep your head on and don't get that girl mixed up in something dangerous."  
  
Marie smiled. "She's going to need a place to stay for the night and since Richard's passed on and my boy's gone I could use the company." Marie took my arm and led me away from the bar. "I'll take good care of you," she said.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
That's a start. I know the last entry doesn't sound like a diary really, but that's just how she wanted to write it I guess. I've done that kind of thing before in my diaries. Tell me if you want me to keep writing because if no one likes it I'll just give up and work on something else. 


End file.
